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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28373187">Mary</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReminiscentRevelry/pseuds/ReminiscentRevelry'>ReminiscentRevelry</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Gen, Introspection, Mary Winchester Introspective, Mary-Centric, POV Second Person, Season Twelve</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:52:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,516</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28373187</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReminiscentRevelry/pseuds/ReminiscentRevelry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You are standing in a graveyard and a man calls you ‘Mom’ and you don’t recognize him, but he knows your name, your history, your husband, and there’s no denying it - he is your older son, who you last saw as a four year old in his own bed. </p><p>OR</p><p>A brief look at Mary Winchester through Season Twelve.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Mary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm back on my Supernatural bullshit. I went six years without sparing a thought to SPN and now I'm neck-deep in season thirteen and enjoying myself immensely. I had a lot of feelings about Mary's character through season twelve so I wrote this!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’re a child and your father hands you a blade and shows you how to behead a monster. It matches your bedtime stories and he smiles when he wipes the blood from your cheek. You’re used to the gore but secretly, you hope for more.</p><p>You’re a teenager and you can knock a grown man out in a fight, can out shoot your father, can coax information out of anyone. You know it helps people, what you do, but you still wish for something else, for something simpler. <strike>Something safer.</strike></p><p>You’re leaving the movies when you run into someone, direct and forceful enough to knock him flat and you both go sprawling. He laughs it off and helps you up and introduces himself to you, kind and sweet. <strike>He has no idea who you are, what you've done, and you hope he never finds out.</strike></p><p>You can see a way out of the life of monsters and blood with this young Marine-turned-mechanic, but it comes with a price, but your parents are already gone and you have nothing left, so you take the deal and you forget about it.</p><p>You have a son, a beautiful little boy named for your mother. He looks at you like you’ve hung the sun and the moon and the stars just for him, and you can see hope through him, because you’ve left that life behind and it will not touch him. You tell him angels are watching over him, though you doubt such a thing exists.</p><p>You and your husband have difficulties, have fights, but he always comes home, he always tells you he loves you and kisses you good night and plays catch with his son and you find that you love them more and more every day.</p><p>You have a second son, named for your late father - the father who never liked your husband but loved you ‘til his dying day - and his brother loves him, wants to play with him and read to him even though he’s too small to play with or understand the stories. They nap together, your older son always watching to make sure his little brother falls asleep first, to make sure he’s burped and comfortable before he falls asleep, too.</p><p>You’re checking on your crying baby in the middle of the night, but your husband is already in the room with him - but your husband is downstairs watching TV, so who’s with your baby, <em>who is in your house?</em></p><p>
  <strike>Yellow eyes staring and slashing pain and burning burning <em>burning-</em></strike>
</p><p>You are standing in a graveyard and a man calls you ‘Mom’ and you don’t recognize him, but he knows your name, your history, your husband, and there’s no denying it - he is your older son, who you last saw as a four year old in his own bed.</p><p>He’s older than you now, technically. You were twenty-nine when you died and he is thirty-seven and his brother is thirty-three. They aren’t children, not the ones you remember. <strike>Not the ones you miss.</strike></p><p>Dean is hard, not inclined to forgive or give leeway, but he softens around his angel friend, and he still watches out for his brother, and he still looks at you like you've hung the sun and moon and stars. <strike>You cannot break it to him that you never did, you cannot shatter his rose-tinted view of you.</strike></p><p>Sam has weight on his shoulders and always plays the middle ground, he’s smart and quick and so, so eager to finally know his mother - he has no memories of you, but you learn that he lost his girlfriend in the same way you died, and you learn so much more.</p><p>This life you thought you escaped has your boys in their entirety. Your husband raised them in it, hunting down your killer <strike>yellow eyes stare at you</strike> until it killed him. </p><p>You wonder how different things would have been if you'd <strike>been able to protect them</strike> lived, but they tell you that their lives were set in motion before any of you were born. They tell you of angels and archangels and fate and how they fought tooth and nail against everything only to end up here, end up hunting. They tell you they tried to live normal lives, both of them tried, but it never worked, it never ended well.</p><p>Every friend they have remaining, every friend they have lost, has either come from hunting or died from it, even the ones they thought were safe from it. So they keep their circle small and contained to people already in the life. Their best friend is an angel (they do exist, and they were watching over your boys, but not for the reason you thought, not for the reason you hoped) and they’ve verified some of the myths your father put you to bed to. They live in a bunker full of lore books and artifacts, the Impala’s trunk is full of weapons <strike>it should have been soccer equipment and Halloween costumes, not guns and machetes and grenades</strike>, they’ve killed angels and demons and gods, they’ve died and come back, they have stopped the Apocalypse three times over, they have met God and killed Death, and now you’ve come back and there is no place you belong.</p><p>They have a dynamic, solid and workable that they maneuver with ease. They push and pull and bicker but they work well together, stepping up where the other falls short the way your family did. You are the wrench in a plan, the rusty cog stopping the machine, the bullet jamming the gun. You don’t fit. <strike>You are not meant to fit.</strike></p><p>The angel who comes and goes, he fits. The sheriff from South Dakota fits. You do not. You’re out of practice, out of place, outdated - you came from a time of typewriters and landlines. Now, a computer can fit in a pocket and function as a phone and a map and a music player. They welcome you, your boys and their friends both, but it doesn't feel right.</p><p>You don’t know how to be a mother to them - they’re grown men, adults that have gone to Heaven and Hell and Purgatory and returned to Earth, they have seen things you never imagined and met things you didn’t think existed, and you don’t know how to be a mom to them. They don’t need you to tuck them in and tell them stories before bed, they don’t need you to cook or clean up after them, they don’t need you to teach them right from wrong. They don’t need you to protect them. <strike>You never got a chance to protect them.</strike></p><p>You go off on your own and you miss them, but you don’t know how to work with them. You manage with the Brits, and your sons are furious when you come clean, but you have your reasons. You are finding your place when you are inherently out of place and they don’t need a mom and they are not small children. <strike>Your oldest tells you he has never been a child and you wonder what your husband did after you died.</strike></p><p>You are tricked and manipulated and locked in your own mind until your oldest breaks through and breaks you out. <strike>I hate you, he says. I love you, he says.</strike> They forgive you but you don’t forgive yourself, not yet.</p><p>You grew up fighting vampires and demons and werewolves. You knew what went bump in the night and you knew how to defend yourself. The Devil was never in the cards, but here he is in front of you, taunting you, with his blade coated in the blood of <strike>your friend angel son boy</strike> one of the ones you betrayed, one of the ones you love. He <strike>is</strike> <em>was</em> the angel your sons <strike>will</strike> <em>would</em> go to the ends of the Earth for. He welcomed you into their fold and spoke to you kindly and offered advice and a listening ear and he is dead on the ground. <strike>Of all of you, you feel it should be you that should be dead.</strike> And your sons, they are on either side of you - your younger son is in shock and your elder son screams for him but he is gone.</p><p>And you have nothing but brass knuckles and spite and fury and grief (so much grief it weighs down your bones and pulls your heart) <strike>and love, so much love</strike> racing through you as you step forward and push him back, push him away from your sons, push him out of the world, <strike>you could not protect them before but you can protect them now</strike> and he drags you with him, and you are alone. Your sons are on the other side of the rift with their dead best friend and the son of the Devil, and you are alone in a dusty world with thunder overhead and the Devil in front of you and bloody brass knuckles –</p><p>And you are alone.</p><p>
  <strike>Maybe you are meant to be alone.</strike>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments, kudos, anything is appreciated! I haven't tried a Second Person POV before, but I think it works well for this. Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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